My character name is Spirit. Spirit is a stallion or a horse/mustang. [He] is a wild mustang. Most herds of mustangs live in open ranges of the west [around] dunes, marshes, and tidal flats. Horses eat grass, apples, hay, and leaves. They use their lips to pick apples and their front teeth to cut grass. Mustangs walk with their hooves. Their back hooves replace where their front hooves just stepped. Mountain lions, gray wolves, and grizzly bears hunt mustangs. Mustangs are not endangered but they were almost put on the endangered species list. Mustangs are descendants of Spanish horses. The name mustang comes from the Spanish name mustengo, which means “ownerless beast.”
Not expecting to go to one of my granddaughter’s riding lessons during my visit, I’m thrilled to learn that I will. This will be my first time watching my fifteen-year-old granddaughter ride. I know that she began lessons on a pony and now plays polo.* As she gets out of the car, I sense the same self-confidence she exudes in other sports. She is wearing sturdy boots that I’ve also noticed are her daily footwear.Pat, the horse farm owner, welcomes us, and her gregarious nature is apparent in her conversation that comes in bursts of enthusiasm as she keeps up ongoing comments about horses and riding. The two head off talking about horses while I mosey behind, taking in a full view of the buildings and the grounds. The large stable doors are open, and I walk down rows of stalls on either side of an aisle until at the back, where the light is dimmer, I find my granddaughter. She has led her horse, Pepolina, out of her stall and is putting on a halter. Pepolina is tall with a brown coat and a short black mane and tail. Pat assigns a horse to a rider both for the horse’s temperament and the rider’s ability level. Pepolina is cross-tied, with three ropes attached to rings on her halter and to the walls on either side of the aisle, while my granddaughter talks to her horse as she brushes her. Pat is commenting and doing a little brushing. I note how my granddaughter responds with smiles, laughter, or just a nod of her head. I breathe in the horse and manure smells. I feel at home. In my grandparents’ barn as a child, I would linger in the stalls where the boards still retained the smell of animals of former years; Pat’s barn awakens my memory. Walking in step with Pepolina’s ambling gait, we leave for the riding arena located in the barn.
Inside, it is clean, airy, and bright from the sunlight that enters through outside doors wide enough for horses to be led through. Pat positions herself with her back to the doors, and I slip into a small area for viewing from behind a railing. Each time my granddaughter passes by, our eyes meet above simultaneous smiles. I watch her practice starting, halting, walking, trotting, and cantering. She responds well to Pat’s instructions, and by her nearly constant smile, I know her love for being here. Trotting to the far end, and without breaking the gait, she uses her riding techniques of use of her reins, body position, shifting weight, thigh pressure, and heel to turn Pepolina down the centerline toward the first opening in a row of three between seven-foot poles. I hear her clicking her tongue in encouragement to her horse. In quick changes of direction, the two go through each of the openings, circle the last pole and reverse to the starting point. Within the seconds it has taken horse and rider to do this, Pat has helped with instructions: “Now remember. Pick up your inside rein. Look. That end pole is always your problem pole. Don’t lean. Sit up straight when you’re going around a pole. Pick up your inside hand.” That completed, with Pepolina in a canter, they go straight down the centerline to where Pat stands. Pepolina, now in a halt, gets my granddaughter’s slaps of approval on her neck. Facing the arena, my granddaughter twists her body around to the right to look over her shoulder at Pat and grin—“We did it!”
At fifteen, my English-style riding experience was an unsuccessful one, but this afternoon, my love for riding has been reignited. I have learned the right riding experience for me—it is watching my granddaughter.
Since then, she has graduated to a new horse, Impression, one that I understand will challenge her more in its temperament and therefore be right for her next riding horizons. I’ve learned how much there is to accomplish in order to become a horsewoman. After today, I know that my granddaughter is on her way.
My realization is, “Our guidance does not necessarily 'deny and forget' what once struck our heart, but may instead inconspicuously keep it alive to be transformed later into a double blessing.”
* Polo is a team sport played on horseback. Players use a long-handled mallet to drive a small white plastic or wooden ball into the opposing team's goal to score.